


consider the moon

by soupk1d



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Dissociation, Dream is sad, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Suicidal Thoughts, a lot of references to the moon, fun for the whole family, george does his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupk1d/pseuds/soupk1d
Summary: The words wrap around Dream’s heart, tugging it down to drop to his stomach. George is speaking so deliberately, speaking like he has all the time in the world for him. Dream has to shut his eyes.“I find what helps,” George continues, “is that no matter where we are or what time it is, every night we are looking at the same moon.”His breath stutters. The words burn.“That’s one thing we share. That’s ours, Clay.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 123





	consider the moon

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic on this site,  
> special thank you to my friend Riley who beta read this and convinced me to post it :]
> 
> warnings for dissociation and suicidal thoughts

There’s a crack in the bedroom wall.

It starts from the crease of the ceiling, running in a thin line downwards. It’s not very long. It splits out towards the end a little bit like the workings of a spider, lines subtle but strong. Not giving up any time soon. And it’s ruining Dream’s wall.

He really needs to get it fixed, covered up or something, and he’s reminded of that every time his head falls on his pillow. But the thought loses itself in his dreams as he sleeps and he forgets it by morning. Every night he sees it again.

He stares blankly at it now, phone ringing in his hand as he lays stiffly in bed. He’s gripping the phone tight right by his left ear even though it plays out on speaker phone. _Please. Please pick up. I need you to pick up now._

Third ring, fourth ring. Dream feels like biting his hand clean off. Fifth ring.

He goes to press the big, red ‘end call’ button but: “Dream?”

It comes out in one breath. “George.”

Dream already feels time begin to slow around him, the twine that had taped his bones together beginning to uncoil. How relieving it is to feel his body settle into the world. 

“Everything alright?” George rasps that, speaking from his throat. Waking up.

“Oh, what time is it there?”

“Nearly,” Dream hears him shuffle, the sound of bedsheets caressing the microphone. “8AM.”

“Oh.”

Time begins to speed up again, and Dream starts to think this wasn’t a good idea.

“But it’s okay,” George reassures. “I’m up. What’s going on?”

Dream pulls his phone up to the front of his face, blinking through the light to look at the time. It’s three in the morning for him. The time of night where the moon is blazing and radiant, slicing through the dark heavens right down to his carpet floor. He’s weirdly addicted to the way the sky bends just as he’s about to fall, it makes the universe feel like it was made for him.

“Nothing. Um, nothing. I don’t know.” 

Sometimes words get too heavy on his tongue and he can’t push them out. But when he’s lucky, on nights like these, George spells it out for him.

“What are you thinking about?”

Dream tries to swallow around whatever chokehold he’s put himself in. 

The concept of sentences fails him, “nothing to worry about. I just don’t really know.”

The sound of bedsheets again. Dream can picture it so vividly, George turning in his bed, falling on to his back. He wonders if the sheets would cling to him.

George prods, knowing Dream must have called him for a reason.

“Just tell me what you’re thinking about right now.”

“You,” Dream feels something inside him turn. “Sorry. I’m thinking of you right now.”

“What about me?"

Dream puts his phone on speaker and sets it on his chest, letting his arm fall to his side.

“I am wondering which one of us is human.”

“We both are.”

“Yeah.”

Dream’s mind is still on George and his sheets. Does he sometimes turn in his bed on a warm night, huff to himself, kick his blankets off and tug at his shirt? Does he cram his face into his pillow, begging sleep to come to him? Does he take his shirt _off_? Dream’s mind can’t comprehend it.

“We both are human, I know,” Dream echoes. “Sometimes you feel unreal, though.”

He hopes George isn’t hurt by that, but it seems to leak out a little in his voice, “what about me isn’t real?”

_Fuck._

“I just mean, like, sometimes I can’t really… like, comprehend that you shower, and stuff. Not shower. I just mean, daily routine stuff. Like human stuff. Like eating, and getting changed, and feeling things. You watch movies and have interests and have preferences. You have thoughts… normal, daily thoughts. Sometimes it feels, uh, a bit unreal to me.”

 _Fuck._ “That came out wrong. You’re very real to me. I’m just, I’m—“

“Yeah, it’s okay. I know.”

They both let the line breathe for a moment. _It’s okay, George knows._ Dream can let time start to fall behind again because George understands him. He doesn’t have to think about anything. All he has to know is his bed, his phone, the cosmos they’ve created. They sit like stars.

George’s voice plays out in the room. It’s fine, and time is slow again.

“Sometimes,” George speaks cautiously and very, very slowly, “things that are so far away can feel fake.”

The words wrap around Dream’s heart, tugging it down to drop to his stomach. George is speaking so deliberately, speaking like he has all the time in the world for him. Dream has to shut his eyes.

“I find what helps,” George continues, “is that no matter where we are or what time it is, every night we are looking at the same moon.”

_God._

“That’s one thing we share. That’s ours, Clay.”

Dream feels his mouth twist into a weird smile, shocked by the candor dripping from George’s words. He can’t really take this. _Ours._ Somehow George had turned him inside out and read the fear he had pushed so deep into his bones, knowing exactly what Dream needed to hear before Dream even knew it. The moon is theirs, and it beams for them.

“You’re… wise.”

George barks out a laugh. “Not wise.” _Just telling the truth._

Dream re-opens his eyes to his room swallowed in blue, the traces of moonlight behind the cloud-riddled night washing everything in a deep cerulean. The remnants of George’s laugh sit in his mind, burning there as they always do. This feels like his dreams.

With time so still he can speak a little clearer, “I’m sorry. I don’t really know why I called.”

“You never need a reason to call me, Dream. You know that,” George says, sighing. 

A slow rumble of warmth blooms in Dream’s chest. 

“Yeah, no, I know. It’s not that there isn’t a reason,” he swallows, trying to form the right words. “I guess it’s just… the same thing it always is.”

George eggs him on, “the thoughts?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Dream responds with an affirmative hum, index finger tapping lightly on the bed sheets. His brain feels so heavy, pinning his head to the pillow and crushing his skull as if an anvil were sitting upon it. There’s fog seeping into the splits it makes.

“D’you wanna tell me about them? The thoughts?”

The crack in Dream’s wall is begging to be torn apart. He shuts his eyes again.

“Not really.”

If he were with George right now, and they were lying in his bed facing each other, he would reach up and trace the frown on his lips. _Please don’t worry about me,_ he’d say. _It isn’t so bad when I’m with you. We’re good friends, you and I_.

Dream lets out a frustrated groan and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry. I guess I do.”

George doesn’t hesitate. “I’m right here.”

A smile spills on to Dream’s cheeks. “There you are.”

Opening his eyes again, staring directly at the crack in the wall, drawing in a deep inhale, he speaks.

“Sometimes I feel like my life has slipped right out of my hands. It’s like it’s right there but I can’t grab it,” his voice strains. “And it just slowly slips further away.”

Blue washes over his room, twisting and coiling into itself, turning Dream’s eyes into grain.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“You’re real, Clay,” George cuts in, hooking his nails into the train of thought that threatens to carry Dream far away. 

“Yeah, that’s easy to say.”

“It’s easy to say because it’s true.”

“Yeah.”

“Clay? It’s true.”

Dream grits his teeth.

“Yeah.”

A moment skitters through the phone line as silence falls between them, processing. Dream begins to find it overwhelming, the undisguised sincerity George can tug out of him. He always does this, he always lets it rise before he knows when to stop.

“I just wish I had control. I don’t even know when,” _this hurts_. “I don’t even know when this happened to me.”

“When you started feeling this way?”

“When this happened to me. When I drew so far from my life, I don’t know. It sucks, George. I don’t know where to start.”

“That sounds really tough, Clay,” George spills, notes of pain and personal sympathy cracking through to reach the light. _Concern_. _Fear_. _I’m so worried about you, Clay._

“I guess,” he responds, voice full of gravel.

Some unfaithful part of his brain burns loud in his thoughts as he thinks that this is what he’s always waiting for, these sorts of talks with George. And the longer he lies here, wordless and plastic, the faster the seconds fall flat and fade away. Time pushes right past him, through the gaps between his fingers, through the crack in his wall.

A watery, bleak chuckle pushes past his lips, “I’m so tired, George.”

Tears threaten him. He brings his hand to his face and squeezes his eyes shut.

The words lay so heavy on his tongue, they practically roll out of him:

“George, I want to die.”

The confession crackles through their fraying phone line. Dream swallows thickly with the weight of his words hanging in the air. _How dangerous_. Fierce dread coils around his open heart and begins to stitch it back together.

 _Some things are better left unsaid_.

The blue in his room is cold. Dream is begging for a response and tries to draw one out of George with a small intake of breath, but it loses itself in the violence of cerulean quiet.

He digs a fingernail into his scalp, carding curls of blond hair through his hand and tugging. Reality flies up his body in sheets as Dream realises what he’s said, the preface he’s revealed. He held on so tightly to the rocks of his cliff face, not letting the deep waters of below tempt him, climbing upwards with conviction. 

Now, with just a few soft words from a soft voice walking fearlessly on the tight rope that connects them to each other, his grip has loosened. His weight has finally given out and the rocks have pooled into mud and he crashes, fast and destructive, into the water below him.

 _Oh my god,_ Dream thinks. _I’ve lost him_.

His words light a match and hold it to the wick, cheeks wet and hands shaky.

“George?” he begs. The wick catches and begins to burn. “Y’got anything to say?”

He holds his breath, desperate to hear any sign of life. All he gets:

“Um,” George forces out, beginning a sentence, but nothing follows, retreating back into the darkness.

The dynamite lights and erupts in Dream’s face. His heart is blown to pieces.

“Sorry,” the harsh whisper tears through Dream. “Fuck, that was fucked up, George. I’m sorry—”

“Clay, do you know,” George pauses. He breathes. It’s broken. “Do you know what something like that would do to me?”

Silence plants itself between them again. Dream’s brain wrings out in the twist of George’s loyalty.

“I mean, do you understand… how,” another pause. “Dream, it would ruin me.”

The blue light cascading from their moon tumbles into him. He breathes in it.

“Yeah,” he says. “I understand.”

 _You stretch me out so much, I don’t even recognise myself anymore. Crying. Telling you my darkest thoughts over the phone. This is what you do to me_.

He feels so fake and prays that George doesn’t feel it too, that he knows what pain is churning in him, that he hears the sincerity, that George knows Dream better than he ever did.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

The words flood Dream’s skull with vulnerable force. “George.”

“It’s true.”

 _Please, god, please_.

“I’m so bad at saying it. I’m sorry, Dream.”

Dream lets out a shaky breath.

Everything falls apart at his fingertips. Time begins to slow again. His head pulses with the thought of George wanting him just as much as Dream wants him back.

 _It would ruin me_.

The night has spun so far from his reach. He counts on George to reel it back in.

“You woke me up from a nice dream,” George hums, wanting to clutch on to whatever was left of this conversations stability. “Can I tell you about it? Do you mind?”

“No,” Dream chokes out. “No, not at all. Please. Tell me.”

“I was in this field. It was really green, like super green, like it had just rained. But the sun was so bright. It was beautiful. I had a camera on me because I was taking photos of everything. I felt like I was in control of it all too, because every step I’d take, a flower would grow behind me. I could keep walking and fill the whole field up with flowers if I wanted.”

“That sounds really nice,” Dream says.

“That’s not even the best part.”

“Oh?”

George pops out a small _nope_. “So I could see all these colours, right, all the colours I don’t usually get to see, and I realised I must be able to do anything. And I just thought the sun was just so bright and pretty. So I grabbed my camera and snapped a picture of the sky, then reached into the image and plucked the sun right out of it.”

“Wow. What did you do then?”

“I wanted to taste it, I guess. So I ate it.”

Dream grins wide. “Amazing stuff, George.”

“It was just a nice dream!” George lets out with a laugh that scatters across the phone line, settling right into Dream’s bones gently.

Through giggles, “you’re so weird. How’d it taste?”

“It tasted nice, I think. You woke me up.”

“Hm,” Dream sighs. He’s teasing. “Sorry.”

His mind lingers on the thought of George’s outstretched hand plucking the sun from the sky. On the thought of holding it in his hand, of raising it to his mouth. How real would that George be, the George from the dream, compared to the George who lies awake to hear the dirt that crawls out of Dream’s mouth?

 _You talk like a man and taste like the sun_.

“I wish it was night for you so we could stare at our moon together.”

Dream says it before he really thinks about it, and has to bite back the wince that begins to form in his brain. This could be dangerous. Time should not be slow enough to let out a thought like that.

But, Dream supposes, it hasn’t really stopped him before.

“We could try and find a time, some night. Go outside on the phone together,” George suggests. Somehow. Bend the universe together in the moments before they’re about to break. Let time fall back so far, giving the stars no choice but to blanket the both of them, finally in sync.

“Yeah.”

 _Finally_.

**Author's Note:**

> theres a glass animals lyric in here somewhere if u could find it
> 
> This was sort of just a stream of consciousness, so I apologise if this got a little too existential :]  
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated!!!!
> 
> I also just made a tumblr that i don’t know how to use: [soupk1d.tumblr.com](url)


End file.
